oh my gosh. hi, poppet, this is your christmas present!! and also your early valentines day present gosh gosh gosh. i, uh, i hope you like it. slkdgskdgld

There was something about the snow. Something that created illusions that not even a magician could create. The snow, glistening as it fell from the sky, coating the city streets, created the illusion of peace. Peace which spread upon the numerous citizens, most of them rushing back to their apartments before the roads turned too slick and icy to drive on. Peace which was ignored. 

The city streets, coated in litter and dirt and grime, was never romantic. Poets would look right over the street when trying to find inspiration. Yet, when the snow fell, the street became a primary subject. Stories written about people and creatures alike, tangling in it’s glistening glory. Making use of the rare moment when the city wasn’t a hell hole, but blessed land. 

Void of many people, lay a grimy street, located somewhere deep within overpopulated city. The sparse lamps were flickering, buzzing, yet bright. The snow, reflecting their tax-paid light all around, creating what one could confuse for a wonderland. Tire tracks were barely visible within the flurry of flakes. Graffiti was invisible unless one was up against the wall. It was beautiful.

There was something about the snow. Something that could even transform a large, lumbering man into someone nearly elegant. Henry Bianchi, being a muscled, tall, and broad young man, was never the picture of elegance. However, within the flurry of snowflakes was a flurry of movement. Arms locked around a young woman, her’s around his. They were dancing. An awkward affair due to a difference in height and posture, yet, in the snow, it seemed effortless. Feet moved in time with a song that was only imagined. The snow and street lamps created an arena where the performers were invisible.

With a lift, Helen Dunkirk could feel the snow nipping at her knees, but she didn’t care. Much like Henry didn’t care about the piles of snow starting to numb his neck where a scarf had once been. A scarf wrapped neatly around Helen’s thin neck. The two continued to move, not put off by their source of light flickering out of time with their soundless tune. Those two, and those two alone, were acknowledging the rare moment of peace allowed to them by the season. Peace which had, for a moment, been ignored.

There was something about the snow. Something that could melt away all tension. And, in its place, leave something beautiful.